The Baron
by StinginLikeaBee
Summary: what is going on in the village of Darchet? Watch as The Baron comes face to face with a deadly killer out to get everyone.


Rumours flew around the Somerset village of Darchet as the village council met up for the thousandth time that week. It was only a month since the last entrepreneur, but there was already a new one on the way. They had to get him out of Darchet and as far away as possible before the inevitable happened. The first cursed one tried to make it into a tourist attraction … he only lasted two weeks, bless. The people of Darchet had trouble dissuading the lawyers from pursuing the case further. But they succeeded and the story was forgotten by most. But not the Darchanians. New rumours were still being spread weeks after the incident. No one could fathom anything. There were no marks on his body, no wounds, nothing. He just sat slumped forward at the dining room table, his face floating in his unfinished supper. There was no weapon found, not even a hair or a fingerprint left on the scene. The police were baffled, the best detectives stumped. Not one single person understood it. So of course meetings were held to discuss this strange and unprecedented phenomenon. There were the inevitable crazy ideas like aliens from the future or witchcraft from the drunks who lived at the one lowly pub in the middle of Darchet and the superstitious folk that had lost one or two marbles. There were also the more sensible ideas, such as death by suffocation or shock. No one could agree on an exact cause

In all the years that followed, not a single person who bought the building, young or old, lasted more than two months. Each death was different, some bodies completely mutilated by some unknown source, others only a mild death. But all were rich businessmen trying to transform the manor into a major money-spinner. Most were put down to accidents or suicide. There was one incident when a man of about thirty years of age somehow managed to fall **in front** of his lawn mower, when he was the one pushing it. This was even more baffling than The First Incident, as the Darchanians called it. Soon, though, the Darchanians put two and two together and, after countless meetings, decided that the house was cursed. They tried to warn people against buying the manor, but the entrepreneurs were drawn to it like iron to a magnet. So more and more people died unnecessarily. One or two Darchanians tried to find out if there were any tragic accidents at the manor before The First Incident, but all searches drew up a blank. Soon the story hit the papers and people stopped buying the manor. The Darchanians could relax. They would never have to worry about brutal and sudden deaths again. But they told their kids about it who, in turn, told their kids, who told their kids, who told their kids … and so on and so forth.

There was one girl, who went by the name of Annabel, who was particularly intrigued in the story. She spent countless hours of her youth trying to puzzle it out. All she wanted was to witness the story happen in real life. But the estate had been locked away behind the rusting iron gate for decades. So she grew up always hoping, always believing. Until she gave up. She gave up hoping and believing and got on with her life. But when she saw the shiny red convertible meander up the drive, she knew she had to warn them.

**~0~**

A clap of thunder shook the manor as The Baron rolled over in his sleep. A harsh wind rushed through the window accompanied by a fresh wave of the needle-sharp rain. The Baron woke with a start to the sensation of rain wetting his face. He got up to fetch a towel, before he realised that he hadn't unpacked one yet. You see, he arrived at the manor late the night before and all the essentials were still in their boxes. The manor hadn't been lived in for a while, about 100 years, and it was definitely evident; there were numerous cobwebs in every crevice and there was a solid inch of dust covering every surface. Other than that, it was a perfectly average 19th century country manor.

There was a dining room, a drawing room, multiple bedrooms and just as many bathrooms, a more modern games room and countless others. But gone were the days of four-poster beds and basic bathrooms. It was for this reason that The Baron had invested his whole inheritance into the manor. There was a state-of-the-art kitchen to install, modern bathrooms to be collected, garages to be built and there was even a voice recognition system being installed by the best brains in Britain. All the paintings would be removed and auctioned off, probably for millions of pounds, and the ancient plumbing and wiring would be ripped out and started from scratch. This was to be a house that even Tony Stark would be jealous of.

Now that he was awake, The Baron had trouble falling back asleep so he decided to go on a tour of his new home. He walked through corridors with family trees and corridors with portraits. He walked past half-rotted doors that crumbled away to the touch. He went into numerous rooms, planning what he was going to transform them into. He decided to only use the bottom two floors, keeping the third floor for show. He descended to the old kitchens to plan out his new one.

The sun was rising as he was ascending from the kitchens. He had been there for some hours trying to lessen the work for the installers. There was an unbelievable amount of grime on the floors and on the ancient worktops. There were fungi growing through the stone walls. He was already hot and sticky and it wasn't yet six o'clock. His stomach grumbled in complaint as he realised with a jolt that he normally would have already had breakfast. In actual fact, he would probably be on the tube and halfway to work by now. He managed to dig out some canned food from his many boxes of belongings. He had stocked up a few weeks before making the trip over because he knew that he was going to be kitchen-less for some time, probably several months.

He was tucking into a can of pears in the drawing room when he heard a gentle tapping. His first thought was the rain on the windows, but the rain was far too heavy for that. His mind then turned to radiators expanding, but there were no radiators in the manor. He put down the pears and slowly walked towards the door. He pushed it open with one hand. There was not a single sound from the door. Odd… He poked his head through the door frame, but saw nothing. There was absolutely nothing except the portrait littered hall way. He was just closing the door to return to his pears when he noticed a rather substantial puddle in front of him. And in the middle of that puddle there was a note. A note that was addressed to him. He closed the door, and again there was no sound. He sat down where he was before and opened the envelope with surprisingly steady hands. The writing was barely legible due to the fact that the letter had been lying in a puddle for goodness knows how long. The letter contained only a simple warning:

_Get out of here while you still can.  
A friend._

A friend. The Baron had no friends. Not even outside Darchet. All he had was his inheritance and his clients. He didn't even have a family.

He discarded the letter amongst the mound of prehistoric legal documents of previous owners and took out his vibrating phone. He checked the caller ID and he saw that it was the kitchen company. He answered the call, expecting bad news, and he wasn't disappointed. It turned out that they weren't going to be able to make it out due to the storms that were raging up and down the United Kingdom. He hung up, bitterly disappointed. He conducted a quick search on his iPhone and it told him that the storms would last for another three days. The Baron realised with dismay that none of the other fitters would be arriving during the storm. This was going to cost The Baron dearly. Not only was he going to have to wait for the fitters and plumbers and electricians for three days, but he was going to have to wait alone. With only tinned food for company. He decided that he may as well make the most of the time he had before the workmen arrived and clear up some of the papers in the drawing room.

He was nearly done with the Mount Everest-sized mound of papers when he noticed a coffee stained piece of paper with an untidy scrawl on one side. The Baron deduced that this piece of paper was a letter. There was no return address, only a date. 1865. The Baron, due to his extensive research, knew that this letter had been sent eight years after the manor had been built. The letter was addressed to a Mr M as far as The Baron could make out. The writing had faded to mostly nothing over the years, but The Baron managed to decipher some of it.

_Sir,_

_This is your final warning. If you do not repay your debt by the end of this month, there will be severe repercussions. I will not tolerate any more of your excuses. I will send my men over to …_

That was all The Baron could make out. He set the letter down in the 'rubbish' pile and got on with his sorting. The next thing he picked up was a death certificate. He just assumed that it was one of a grandmother, but as he was putting it down with the letter, the age of the deceased caught his eye. At first glance, he thought it said 48 (the average life expectancy at the time) but it actually said just eight. The name of the deceased was Amarabella Veronica Michaelson. The Baron had to look twice at the cause of death because it was not the kind of death that the average eight-year-old girl dies of. For on the death certificate, the official cause of death was 'mutilation'. The Baron shuddered to think what mutilation involved. He decided not to dwell on it and moved on to the still massive pile of documents and letters.

Three hours later, well into the evening, and he was just sorting the last few papers. Having been up since about four o'clock in the morning, he was absolutely exhausted. He was just picking up the penultimate piece of paper, when he heard the most chilling noise. He was sure it just his tired mind imagining things, but he decided to check it out anyway. He walked through the door looking onto the entrance hall and he heard it again. A sob. To be precise, a young girl's sob. He turned slowly and saw a figure on the stairs out of the corner of his eye. When he faced the stairs face on, however, he saw nothing. Experimentally, he turned slightly to the side so that he could only just see the stairs. The girl reappeared. He turned face on again, and the girl disappeared again. He shrugged it off, still thinking that it was his mind playing tricks on him. As he walked past the stairs, he saw the girl for the last time that day.

He turned in with every muscle in his body burning from all the cleaning in the kitchen earlier in the day and then later the work in the drawing room. He put his book down and settled down, hoping for a good night's sleep. This hope was short lived, however, as he heard a banging noise in the corridor just outside his door shortly after midnight. He looked out and he saw a girl, the same girl from the stairs, pulling down all the paintings from their places in his peripheral vision. He turned to see it better, but the girl disappeared. He gave up on trying to see what it was and turned to go back into his room, but the wind had shut the door behind him. He tried the handle, but nothing happened. He tried putting all his weight behind it, but still no luck. Several more attempts saw a severely bruised shoulder and a still locked door. He felt a cold chill shudder down his spine, originating from his left shoulder. He turned his head a fraction to the left and he saw the girl in more detail this time. Her hair was elbow length and done up in elaborate curls. Her dress must have been exquisite and to-die-for at the time of manufacture, for there was evidence of a former beauty, even after the girl's mutilation. She was clutching a teddy bear in her left hand whilst her right arm was outstretched, reaching towards The Baron. She let it fall slowly, still watching The Baron. Then she abruptly turned and walked away down the corridor. As much as The Baron wanted to stay right where he was, he felt compelled to follow her. He was careful to keep turning his head occasionally to keep her in sight.

The Baron was in some kind of trance, hardly noticing the plaster falling from the ceiling almost as soon as he passed underneath it. The Manor was literally falling down around him as he put one foot in front of the other. Soon the portraits were falling off the walls, floorboards uprooting themselves. The Baron just kept on walking as if nothing was happening. The girl stopped at the bottom of the stairs and waited for The Baron to catch up. The Baron's boots echoed throughout the manor, audible even over the thunderstorm that was trying to knock down the house. The Baron lost sight of the girl and temporarily left his trance, but he was soon back under the girl's spell as he sighted her heading down into the kitchens.

He followed the girl into the centre of the massive kitchen and they just stood there for a while, regarding each other. Every so often, The Baron would try to get a proper look at the girl, but every time she would disappear. The door closed with a resounding thud and The Baron was pretty sure that it would not be reopening any time soon. The rain from the storm was starting to seep through the walls, watering the fungi and the moss and creating small puddle on the surfaces. The girl started walking around The Baron like a shark in the movies. Just waiting for the right time to attack. The Baron managed to keep sight of her as she circled him. He watched her form flicker. Suddenly, the girl stopped and The Baron was slow to react. So he ended up looking at her face on. And she was still there. And he found himself reaching for the knife.


End file.
